Adventures in international living from a hetero-queer perspective.

Ha.

You know that feeling when you see someone you think you know but it’s totally not them?

Here’s my version:
“You’re almost at 6th? Ten minutes? Alright.”

A familiar black Honda Accord pulls to a stop in front of me, Rasta cap and dreads behind the wheel. I open the door and slide into the passenger seat, cheerfully “Hey ma— oh SHITshitshitshit…you’re not him.”

While I’m mentally oh-shitting myself, Rastaman with the most dazzling smile and reassuring voice says to me, to the beat of the happy-peace-chill music in the background, “Wachu want, baby? Relaaax…I got wachu want.” And it really doesn’t sound as skeezy as that reads.

Reality snap: I inhale the tell-tale, weedy-incense drug scent that permeates the car and what are the odds?!

Do I go for it? He’s not a narc, right? I mean, he’s in the exact same make and model as my regular dude and the fucking dreads and hat, for chrissakes. These eerie similarities make me think paranoid thoughts like:
This is a set-up.
Why on earth would I be set-up?
I don’t buy serious quantity.
I don’t sell the shit.
Is this really just a fucking weird coincidence?
I just smoke a lot of dope.
I’m wholesome, c’mon.

While I’m exercising neuroticism, Rastaman asks me what I was going to buy. And he proceeds to show me the most green shit I’ve seen in a while. Nice. Hmm…time to negotiate while I wonder about the moral code of switching dealers. I always need a back-up and his shit is better than my regular dude’s— for the same price. Speaking of, where the fuck is my regular guy?! He’s super late at this point. This is a no-brainer.

The deal is done.
He gives me his card— 007.

I exit the car and my heart starts to beatbeatpound. I hope really hard that no one stops me. I want my trusting instincts to prove me right. I’m anxious, walking quickly but not too suspiciously quickly, fighting the urge to look behind me. Surely no one’s behind me. As I reach my block, I finally breath sweet relief and smile huge.